a runaway quatrain

A poetic re-telling of how I am handling the first stage of grief.

Sitting at the Anger Bar a stewing.

Dishing and venting with the bartender,

An urge to have another round, brewing.

Fighting the anger-holism overtaking


Me. Where the last round “tastes(sh) like anothers,”

And this is where the real trouble begins…

Drunk on power, sole focus my druthers

Slurring amidst an apoplectic fog.


Struggling to form coherent words and phrases

With points to make, internal fight ensues.

Self-compassion saunters in and erases

The bottomlessness of my roiling rage.

A wildcat has its mouth wide open bearing its teeth with its eyes squinting shut.
Photo by Pixabay:



a poem

Rolling river rapids in a green blue come rushing at the viewer. Green trees and shrubbery line each side and the background. A blue sky with clouds is also in the background.
Photo from Pixabay.

rivers of skin

that show where I have been

where it carried you — a tributary

flowing out of me towards the delta

this place is hostile towards the living, the breathing, and also those who dare to develop a capacity to harness additional lives from within.

rivers of skin

that show where I have been

where I grew and expanded with you

and I dared to keep growing long after you flowed out of me

this place is hostile towards caring.



a prose poem

A midnight blue sky covered in stars is the backdrop for a volcanic eruption in the foreground. A blackened peak of rock spraying red fiery arcs with a yellow center.
Photo by Clive Kim from Pexels

I was consumed with volcanic rage.

My insides quaking and shaking.

I was looking for a place to safely expend my energies.

Then, unexpectedly my face erupted.

Molten lava tears rolled down my cheeks.

Grief triggered by my former employer protesting my unemployment claim.

The same employer that permanently laid off hundreds of people.



prosaic poetry unraveled

A brown porcupine is seen in profile with it’s white and brown quills protruding outward. It sits on green grass in the shade.
Photo by Anca Silvia Orosz from Pexels

Repeating one’s self so much so you feel

like your voice is a thread-bare rug everyone

walks upon.

Not being heard, raising your voice

so that you are heard, and then no one

listening to you because you are YELLING.

Doing your best and failing.

Guessing the Wordle at the beginning of your day,

having the word be gloom and that word forecasting

a pall over your Monday.

Being reminded of all the things you

have not done and feeling powerless to do them.

Having your phone ding unrelentingly,

on a day, you would rather not engage with people at all.

Trying to find calm in a haystack of irritation.

A pesky bunch of fungus gnats that have survived

all home remedies, soil replacements, and multiple


One day that needs no repeating.





Queer Writer & Poet | Sex and Sensuality | Health and Wellness Interests | Personal Experience | LINKTR.EE/TOLBERTMBB | Instagram @tolbert_on_medium